Two Years Wasted
by darnedchild
Summary: A short fic for Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2016 - Day Six (Canon Compliant-ish - What happened during the two years Sherlock was dead).
**Two Years Wasted**

Sherlock had barely been 'dead' forty-eight hours the first time he let himself into Molly's flat.

She'd been cuddling with Toby on the sofa, the telly on for background noise. Her mind and body were still exhausted from the stress of the last few days and she simply wanted some time to decompress.

When he walked out of her bedroom she nearly screamed. Obviously Molly had known he was alive, she'd helped fake his death; but she hadn't expected to see him again for a long, long time (if ever). She hadn't even realized he knew where she lived.

Sherlock had been whisked off to some secret location while his brother finalized plans to get Sherlock out of the country. As far as she had known, he should have already been on his way.

"Mycroft's minions are driving me up the wall. I need to be able to think, and I can't do that with a protection detail breathing down my neck." He'd frowned, his mind immediately bouncing to another topic before she'd had a chance to comment on the first. "Have you considered getting a better lock for your bedroom window? Any degenerate could climb up the fire escape and break-in."

"I can see that," she had managed to reply. Toby had hissed and run away from the unfamiliar intruder, and Molly . . .

Molly had ended up handing over her room because she'd never been able to deny him anything.

He stayed for two days, then disappeared without a word.

It would be three months before she saw him again.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

There had been someone in her shower when she came home late from a night out with friends.

Molly didn't think a burglar would have broken into her flat just to avail himself of her orange blossom scented bath gel, but she had a frying pan in hand when she knocked on the bathroom door nevertheless.

Sherlock had been thinner, his cheek bones impossibly sharper, when he'd opened the door and let out a cloud of steam. Molly made a point of keeping extra food around the flat for the remainder of the week he was in residence in an effort to tempt him to eat.

He didn't talk about the task he'd set for himself, the one that had necessitated the last three months of mourning from those that cared about him most.

She didn't ask.

Instead, she gave him his space (including her room without a single argument) and the quiet he craved in order to think clearly.

The second day Sherlock broke his silence. He told her about a dog who had followed him back to where he'd chosen to bed down for the night. He'd shared his dinner (purely because he hadn't been hungry, he was quick to clarify) and after that the dog was his constant companion for a week and a half. Until one day Sherlock woke up and the dog was gone without a trace.

Her heart ached, but she knew better than to offer words of comfort or sympathy. She'd reached out to hold his hand; and, surprisingly, he'd let her for a few minutes before he'd shut himself in her bedroom for the rest of the night.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Four weeks later she came home to a haphazardly made bed and a dirty mug in her sink.

She'd debated long and hard about leaving the sheets on her bed, but in the end she found herself surrounded by faint traces of his scent when she fell asleep.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Most the world had moved on. Sherlock had jumped more than eight months prior. Molly hadn't seen John in five.

This time when Sherlock showed up, she was prepared. There was a key to her flat waiting for him ("No more creeping up the fire escape or picking the lock, please."), and a new silk dressing gown hung off the back of her bedroom door.

He stayed three days and whispered harrowing tales of border crossings and cutthroat backroom deals as they shared her sofa in a dark sitting room in the dead of night.

She talked of Greg's demotion and the extra scrutiny her department had endured for that first month or two. Sherlock's brother had managed to keep her out of the worst of it, thankfully.

She'd only tried to bring up John once. Sherlock refused to mention his name, and she'd quickly changed the subject.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The one-year anniversary of the deaths of Richard Brook and Sherlock Holmes brought whispers of conspiracies and the promise of a new scandal.

What if Richard Brook had been the lie all along? What if James Moriarty had been real?

There'd been a brief awkward phone call from John, complete with a vague promise of meeting up for dinner one day that neither of them were planning to follow through with, that had left her feeling sad.

Molly drank a glass of wine before pouring herself into bed.

She woke in the night to find Sherlock curled against her back.

It had been easy to roll over and pull him close, to snuggle against his chest with her face against his throat. His arms had tightened around her; and when their lips met, it was the most natural thing in the world.

The next morning Molly woke alone. Sherlock had left a note on her bedside table. A promise that he'd return as soon as he could.

He didn't.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

One, two, three months passed without a word. Molly had begun to lose hope that he'd return to her. After three months with no contact it was clear to her that he regretted that last night with her. Even if he came home to London (and she prayed to God more than once that he would come home safe and sound), she knew he'd avoid her.

Avoid any hint of sentiment that might have formed between them.

Then it was four, five, six months since she'd last seen him. Tom, sweet Tom, came into her life. Tom who wanted nothing more than to make her laugh, to forget whatever dark thing sometimes stole her smile out of the blue. Tom who loved her and asked her to be his wife.

She loved him. Perhaps not the same way as she had loved (still loved) Sherlock, but just as deep.

And then, nearly thirteen months after he'd held her in his arms and kissed her until she'd whispered "I love you" against his lips for the first and only time, Sherlock returned.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly had been wrong. He didn't avoid her. Just the opposite, in fact. But it hadn't been the same. Their time together was softer and bittersweet, and she couldn't help but feel guilty for every moment she enjoyed with the man who wasn't hers.

Tom was wonderful, and nearly perfect, and (she eventually realized) very clearly a stand in for what she'd wanted for so long. Even though there was no longer any spark of hope left for anything more than a friendship with Sherlock Holmes, Molly had realized that her love for Tom would always be haunted by her feelings for the other man.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to have had no trouble letting go of the memories of their time together. She'd learned of his drug use in person, of his torrid relationship with one of Mary's bridesmaid's through the gossip rags.

It shouldn't have hurt, yet it did.

She saw it as proof that their friendship had been tenuous at best.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Molly had no idea how long it had been since Sherlock Holmes jumped. She'd stopped keeping track.

She'd seen him around Barts from time to time, but never during one of her regular scheduled shifts. She'd heard rumours that he'd managed to get himself into trouble, big trouble, and he'd needed to lie low for a while until things had been sorted out; but that seemed to have been dealt with.

Her own life had taken a bit of time to adjust after she'd broken up with Tom, but things were stable and happy again. She went out with her friends on a fairly regular basis, had just received a raise at work, and she'd even done a little harmless flirting with the barrista at the hospital coffee shop (just to get back into practice).

She let herself into her flat and kicked off her shoes before padding into her bedroom to change out of her work clothes into something more comfortable. Molly froze in the doorway at the sight of Sherlock sitting on her bed.

He stood up and tucked his hands behind his back, as if he didn't know what else to do with them. "Molly."

"Sherlock? What-what are you doing here?" Was he leaving again? Surely he didn't think she'd be fine with him using her flat as a bolt hole anymore.

"I needed to talk with you, about what happened. The night . . . that night." He rocked forward on his toes, and Molly realized he was nervous.

"Now? It's been—I don't even remember how long it's been, and you want to rehash it now?"

"Nineteen months and twenty-three days." He looked hurt when she said she couldn't remember.

It had been a lie, of course. She'd never forget the date; it was burned into her memory. She wrapped her arms around herself and considered whether or not she wanted to open all of that up again or leave it safely packed away where it didn't hurt anymore.

She could do this; she was ready to do this. "All right. Go ahead."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, then rubbed at his mouth as if trying to buy time.

"How about I start and you can correct me if I'm wrong?" She waited until he nodded to continue. "The anniversary was harder on you than you anticipated. You weren't expecting us to sleep together, but we did. Once you had a chance to think about it, you realized it was more than you were comfortable with and you thought cutting me out of your life completely would be the best way to let me down gently."

He started shaking his head before she was halfway through. "No, no, that's not—no." Sherlock closed the distance between them and looked down at her as if he were afraid she was going to push him away. "I wanted to come back to you. I did. But I couldn't find the right words to tell you over the phone or in a letter; and by the time I finally admitted to myself that I was scared you might not feel the same, it was so late. I was afraid you'd think I'd deserted you, I needed to have that conversation face to face. I needed to see you when I told you . . ."

Sherlock reached out to cup her cheek. "I have no real excuse other than fear. When I finally managed to find a way home, you were happy with Meat Dagger and I couldn't bring myself to ruin that for you."

Her eyes closed for a long moment as she gathered her thoughts and feelings together into something she could articulate. "I loved him." Molly opened her eyes and looked up at him. "I loved you, too."

"And now? Is it too late?"

A tiny spark of hope began to burn in her heart. "For what?"

"For us. Did I leave it too late to tell you I love you?" His hand slid back into her hair and down to the nape of her neck. "That I will always love you."

Her arms rose to wrap around his waist. "It's been months since Tom left. Why now?"

His expression began to soften as the tension in his body slowly melted away. "I didn't think you wanted me anymore. You seemed so sad whenever I was around, I didn't want to hurt you."

Molly dug her fingers into his back, pulling herself the last little bit closer to him so that she could feel his solid warmth against her. "I think I've always loved you, and I always will."

"Thank God," he sighed in relief. "We can work everything else out later, I just want to spend the next few hours holding you and making up for all those months I should have been telling you how I felt."

She smiled against his chest, then raised her face to his. "My evening is free. Tell me you love me."

Sherlock leaned down to brush his lips against hers in a kiss that started out soft and gentle, then quickly became more. He pressed his forehead against hers and rasped, "I love you. Let me show you how much."


End file.
